The Shadow
by Kang Xiu
Summary: AU. Samuel Enjolras worships his older brother Dimitri. So when Dimitri dies, what's to do? Manon put me up to it. Amazingly, it is done.
1. A Golden Shadow

"A Golden Shadow"  
  
Dimitri Enjolras was much taller than his younger brother Samuel; tall and beautiful and commanding. He spoke back to their parents, and wrote and read all the time. Samuel only followed. He looked the same, but in a far less magnificent way. He had the same golden hair; but his was shorter and didn't curl gloriously the way Dimitri's did. His blue eyes were paler than Dimitri's; his long lashes were shorter than Dimitri's; his slender hands weren't as elegant as Dimitri's. His aunt had once called him an accessory. She told his uncle that Samuel was like the hat one wore with a dress to try and make it look prettier, but which was inadequate beside the dress itself.  
  
No one who saw the two of them noticed Samuel. Everyone noticed Dimitri, with his stern, quiet gaze and his soft, firm voice. Samuel was two years younger than Dimitri, and for all that he worked harder at things and spent more time on his schoolwork and did his best to help his mother, no one noticed him standing next to Dimitri.  
  
Of course, Samuel didn't mind. He loved Dimitri. And it wasn't as though his elder brother didn't have *time* for him. Dimitri always liked to let Samuel in on things.  
  
So it was only natural that he would tell Samuel about his revolution, really.  
  
"Patria, Samuel, is my only lover. So don't expect to become an uncle," he said, and ruffled Samuel's hair. Of course, Samuel didn't mind. "She's a beautiful goddess. She represents France, the true France. The France beneath all of these heartless aristocrats without any respect at all for the people."  
  
And Samuel nodded his head, at sixteen years old, and agreed. "No, they haven't. Papa told the maid she was a peasant without a mind." He understood what it meant, but not really. He said it because what it meant was what Dimitri was saying, not because it meant anything very much to him.  
  
Dimitri nodded his head as well, but his wasn't a silly, childish action like Samuel's. He nodded his head gravely, and his golden curls swirled a little, in a soft wind of dignity. "That's exactly what I'm saying, Samuel. You understand. Oh, I'm going to Paris this month, you know. And then I'll get together all the men who feel the way I'll do. We'll get rid Louis-Phillipe, that pig."  
  
Samuel said, "You'll get rid of him!"  
  
"Yes. We'll make France a Republic. That's what Patria commands. That's what Patria stands for. Freedom."  
  
Samuel nodded again. Dimitri was right. Dimitri was cleverer than anyone else. When Dimitri had his revolution, he would win it. Samuel only hoped he'd be old enough to leave home by the time Dimitri did, because he terribly wanted to be in it. 


	2. The Shadow Gains Substance

"The Shadow Gains Substance"  
  
Dimitri was terribly excited about going to Paris, and he talked about it often, but Samuel worried a little. He worried because he'd miss Dimitri when he was gone. And he *was* rather afraid that Dimitri would have the revolution he kept planning before Samuel could come to Paris and be in it. Dimitri didn't really seem to notice that Samuel was worried, but of course Samuel didn't mind. He never minded. He was used, really, to people not noticing him.  
  
Dimitri was getting rather paler than he'd been, but that was something Samuel never worried about. He didn't know he should. He only supposed it was part of Dimitri's becoming more beautiful the older he got, because Dimitri *did* look more beautiful now he was paler.  
  
One day, two weeks before he'd leave, Dimitri walked out in the garden with Samuel, and told him all about the way Paris would be. He told Samuel about how free he'd be, living on his own, in his own room in a boarding-house in the city. He told Samuel that going to college there would expose him to all different sorts of people, and that would help him become a better judge of character.  
  
Samuel nodded, and echoed him sometimes.  
  
When Dimitri paused in the middle of a sentence, and put a hand on his chest, wincing, Samuel didn't realise anything was wrong. He didn't realise anything was wrong until Dimitri made a little strangled noise and fell, grabbing hold of Samuel's shoulder and pulling him down as well. Dimitri fell on top of him, and Samuel went white and quite frightened as he pushed him off.  
  
"Dimitri..." he said softly, and he thought of a sudden how much thinner and higher his voice sounded compared to Dimitri's.  
  
Dimitri didn't move.  
  
Samuel knew he should run to the house and get someone, but he was afraid, and it hurt his throat, that Dimitri would wake up while he was gone. And then, he thought, everyone would be angry with him; Dimitri for his making such a fuss, and his parents for his calling them out when nothing was wrong. Dimitri might very well wake up in a moment, and then there'd be no need to do anything at all.  
  
He sat outside in the garden for half an hour before his mother came looking for him and found him there, with Dimitri lying beside him.  
  
The funeral was dreadful, because Samuel had known it would be. He tried out a trick he learned a long time ago, which was to put anything awful in the very back of his mind so that he might forget it. It was rather a good trick, and he pretended everything but the funeral had happened.  
  
He slept in Dimitri's room, in Dimitri's bed, and he read all of the papers Dimitri had left behind. He found a lot of letters from someone named 'Combeferre', and a lot of half-finished speeches that looked as though parts had been taken from books in his father's study. He learnt Dimitri's handwriting by tracing it over and over with his pen, until he had mastered it. Of course it wasn't perfect. Samuel had never been perfect. He didn't mind.  
  
He finished some of the speeches; the easy ones. When a letter came from Combeferre, he wrote back. He told Combeferre that Dimitri was ill, and that it might be a long while before he came to Paris. Samuel didn't know exactly why he did it. He sent Combeferre the speeches he'd finished, and asked his opinion, but he told Combeferre Dimitri had written all of them.  
  
He practiced speaking the way Dimitri used to speak, and he remembered to nod his head slowly, in a dignified way. He made his voice go soft and smooth the way Dimitri's did. He looked with sad, old blue eyes at everyone. He curled his hair 'round his fingers and pretended it looked like Dimitri's. He studied Dimitri's handwriting even more than he had before. He learned from all of the speeches Dimitri had written how to write one, but he took Combeferre's advice on them, one thing Dimitri wouldn't have done. He wrote back to Combeferre now every time, saying that it was just a little longer, that the illness had been severe, but that he was recovering. He signed all the letters 'Dimitri'.  
  
When he was almost eighteen, he asked his parents in a steady, reasonable voice if he might go to Paris as Dimitri had planned to.  
  
In his next letter to Combeferre, he explained that he had fully recovered, and would come within two weeks. Combeferre wrote back, and said he was waiting eagerly, and it would be a pleasure to meet him. Samuel smiled, for he had grown rather fond of Combeferre after all this time.  
  
He realised, as he finished the letter, that he wasn't going to be an accessory any longer. It worried him more than it reassured him. 


	3. The Shadow Meets the Light

"The Shadow Meets the Light"  
  
The day Samuel arrived in Paris was cold and dark, and there was a fine sheen of rain all about. The sky was an even grey colour from all the clouds. He shivered, and drew his greatcoat closer about him, and frowned Dimitri's gentle, severe frown at the world.  
  
He met Combeferre the next day at the college after classes had ended. Combeferre was an ordinary young man of medium height, but he had a rather nice-looking, pleasant face that attracted Samuel at once. He smiled, and it was accidentally his own smile, delighted and young, instead of Dimitri's solemn smile.  
  
But Combeferre didn't seem to notice.  
  
Combeferre took Samuel's hand and told him in a warm voice, which made him feel full and pleased, that it was very good to meet him at last. He was to learn that Combeferre was like this with everyone, but right then he felt rather as though the greeting was something odd and special and had been for him only in the world.  
  
He regained his composure quickly, and told Combeferre that it was good to meet him, as well. He did it perfectly, just as Dimitri would have done. Combeferre didn't notice this, either, but Samuel was quite relieved, for it only proved he was doing things correctly.  
  
"You remember, from my letter, that I have been learning of those who might be glad to join us?"  
  
"Yes, of course," said Samuel, for this was in one of the letters in Dimitri's room.  
  
"I haven't made too much progress, as I thought you might have your own ways of going about things," and Combeferre gave him a friendly smile that made him feel almost light-headed, "but there is a young man named Courfeyrac who is quite open about being a Bohemian. I should think revolution to be very appealing to him. He is that sort; not violent, but he would likely think it very amusing and highly approve of it for the poor."  
  
Samuel nodded. "I should like to meet him."  
  
"Oh, you will. He's rather unavoidable," Combeferre said gently.  
  
This gave Samuel a momentary feeling of foreboding, a kind of dread, but he just looked steadily at Combeferre with his old eyes, and nodded again. "I understand."  
  
The next moment he was almost lost his balance as a laughing young man danced over and stopped an inch short of him, beaming. "Combeferre! I say, Combeferre-- Oh, gracious me, you're not Combeferre-- Combeferre!" for he had spun about, "Combeferre, really. How could you have walked over here without me?" He kissed Combeferre's cheek in greeting, and cried out happily, "I've made the old professor furious with me again! I'm an absolute wretch, aren't I?"  
  
Samuel decided with a sinking feeling this must be Courfeyrac.  
  
Courfeyrac had ceased leaping about, and was grinning, out of breath, at both of them. "You must forgive me. I've gained a new mistress. Rather splendid. Her name is Valerie, and she's simply star-kissed. Elates a fellow, such a thing does." He looked at Samuel over the shoulder of Combeferre, whom he had just moved behind. "Who are you, o tall one?"  
  
"Dimitri Enjolras," Samuel said.  
  
Courfeyrac glowed. "What a lovely name. Michel Courfeyrac, the utterly plainly named. Pleased to meet you," and he extended his arm over Combeferre's shoulder.  
  
Samuel couldn't quite bring himself to take it, so he only made a short half-bow, with a hint of irony in it, as Dimitri would have done. Courfeyrac snorted, but didn't look particularly put out, and bounded off again in a moment, calling, "I shall see you later, 'Ferre!"  
  
Combeferre smiled at Samuel as he stood, a little shocked. "I'm afraid he's rather exuberant. He's a good man, however, and when you've gotten to know him, nothing he does will surprise you."  
  
"Clearly," Samuel murmured distastefully. The look of reproach on Combeferre's face made him feel instantly guilty for it, and he amended with, "I imagine he won't seem so irritating when I know him better."  
  
Combeferre said he thought this was so, and giving Samuel a last smile, politely took his leave.  
  
Samuel stayed by himself for a while, feeling sick and relieved and thrilled and frightened all at once. The first day was the hardest, he told himself. He had been afraid that he'd do terribly, and clearly he hadn't, because Combeferre had thought he was Dimitri, so that was all right-- He sighed, and began walking back to the boarding-house. It wasn't hard. It was, it would always be, a matter of concentration and of belief. 


	4. The Shadow Ripples

"The Shadow Ripples"  
  
It was almost a week later when Samuel woke up in the morning and realised he didn't know what he was doing. He understood that he was doing what Dimitri had wanted to do, but he didn't know why. He was writing speeches the way Dimitri wrote, referring to the same books Dimitri referred to, and using the same turns of phrase Dimitri used - for he didn't let a bit of Samuel creep into the things he did - but he didn't know why he was writing them.  
  
He told himself that Combeferre knew. The difficulty was that asking Combeferre to tell him would mean admitting-- admitting was *not* the word. He would not be admitting anything. He hit his pillow. Asking Combeferre to tell him would mean going back to being Samuel.  
  
After a week of having been Dimitri in front of people, it had gotten so much easier, and it was *nice* by now, and he liked it. He was, of course, frightened a little that someone would know he wasn't Dimitri, and Dimitri was sterner and more solemn than he would have liked, but he was much happier this way. It didn't worry him anymore. He reminded himself of this coldly, and pulled his blankets over his shoulders.  
  
He did need to speak to Combeferre, however. It was inconceivable that he could truly be Dimitri without knowing why Dimitri did things. So he promised himself he would ask Combeferre after classes, no matter what happened then, and spent the rest of the day resigning himself to being Samuel again.  
  
Combeferre sought him out instead, and asked him in his lovely warm voice if he could come and meet someone. Samuel didn't protest, resolving to speak to Combeferre later.  
  
Feuilly had black eyes and looked at Samuel intently. Combeferre had met him, he explained, in the street; Combeferre had dropped some books, he had gathered them up, and in replacing a paper that had fallen out of one, found it to be the rough draft of one of Samuel's speeches. He had read it. Feuilly explained this with some pride. He had read it very quickly while he was picking up the other books, and when he had handed it back to Combeferre, he had inquired as to whether Combeferre was a revolutionary.  
  
Here Combeferre interjected, in an amused tone of voice, that they had experienced a momentary standstill, because he had been unsure of admitting the fact without knowing whether Feuilly agreed with revolution, and Feuilly had not wanted to say he agreed with it until he knew Combeferre wasn't a police informer.  
  
Feuilly twitched his nose at Combeferre, and said, "But we found we were both of the same mind, and I came here to meet you, because he said you were the leader...?"  
  
Samuel nodded. "Yes. I am."  
  
"All right. What do we stand for? What are we going to do?" Feuilly watched Samuel with his black eyes, and Samuel nearly shifted uneasily, but Dimitri would never have done that, so he overcame the urge.  
  
"We stand for Patria, and Patria stands for France. We stand for freedom. We stand for freedom, and equality for every man."  
  
"What about every woman?" Feuilly asked.  
  
Samuel blinked.  
  
"For every woman, as well. For anyone; for the elderly, for the young, for men and women," Combeferre said. "Equality is for the people, and everyone is the people."  
  
Feuilly smiled, a fey little smile that fit with his slightly pale face and his tousled black hair. "Good; then I am with you. But what will we do?"  
  
"Have a revolution," Samuel said simply, because that was what Dimitri had said. He rather hoped that would satisfy Feuilly.  
  
Feuilly's smile grew the tiniest bit wider, and he nodded to Combeferre, and to Samuel. "All right. Do we meet somewhere?"  
  
"Corinthe, or the café Musain. More often it's the café. The back room," Combeferre said. "I believe to-morrow--"  
  
"The day after to-morrow," Samuel cut in firmly. "Saturday."  
  
Feuilly gave a short little laugh. "I shall come." Then he gave Samuel a look, and left.  
  
"Damn," Samuel mumbled.  
  
"Why?"  
  
"Nothing. Nothing. I need to speak with you, Combeferre."  
  
"Of course," said Combeferre, curiously.  
  
"Privately," Samuel added, as Combeferre seemed to be waiting expectantly.  
  
"Would you like to come to my apartment? I have a room at a quite respectable place, Enjolras."  
  
"All right." Samuel sighed. "Thank you."  
  
"Of course," Combeferre repeated gently, and turned, to show he was ready to go. Samuel followed quietly, and felt sad. Dimitri wouldn't have followed, but Samuel would.  
  
He lowered his eyes and looked at the street beneath his feet. 


	5. The Light Bewitches the Shadow

"The Light Bewitches the Shadow"  
  
Samuel looked about Combeferre's room quietly without taking anything in, far too worried, as the latter seated himself on the bed and gestured at the single chair.  
  
"You may sit there, if you wish to, Enjolras."  
  
"All right." Samuel sat, drawing up his long legs and trying to find a comfortable position on the little wooden chair. "I... I need to tell you something, and I don't know how..." He stopped suddenly, and frowned. That hadn't sounded like something Dimitri would say, but it hadn't sounded like Samuel, as he remembered him, either. He opened and closed his mouth several times, trying to refocus his thoughts.  
  
Combeferre waited patiently.  
  
He tried to remember how he should start this, how he had planned it in his head, but the first thing he said when he regained his tongue was: "My name... my name... it's Samuel." He stared in horror at Combeferre, lips parted.  
  
"Come here, Samuel," said Combeferre softly. Samuel obeyed, unfolding himself from the chair and coming over, and sitting beside Combeferre. He stared at his hands, and tried to speak again. Instead, he began to cry inconsolably, like a child. Combeferre put his arms about Samuel and rocked him gently, smoothing down his hair. He didn't try to speak, and Samuel couldn't, so there was no sound save the weeping for a long time.  
  
At last Samuel stopped crying, and just lay in Combeferre's arms, remembering to breathe.  
  
"Dimitri was my brother, you know. He had scarlet fever as a child... they said it made his heart weak. He died." Samuel laughed, panting a little. "And I don't know what I was doing... I wrote you letters. I wrote you all those letters. I still don't know what I'm doing. What are we fighting for, Combeferre? What is Dimitri's revolution for? I don't know. I don't understand. I don't understand anything. I'm a fool. I'm a little fool." He twisted around to look at Combeferre's face.  
  
"No, you're not." Combeferre stroked Samuel's hair soothingly.  
  
Samuel abruptly sat straight up, pulling away. "I'm not stopping. I'm Dimitri now. Don't think I'm stopping. I promised I'd do it for him. And I will. You shan't stop me. You can't. I promised."  
  
Combeferre looked calmly at Samuel, who was sitting with both wrists pressed into the coverlet, his hair a mess, and the tearstains still on his cheeks, trying not to sniffle. "I don't intend to stop you."  
  
"Oh... well. I came because I wanted to know. I wanted to know what it's all about, because I don't really understand. I don't know *why*."  
  
"Walk out in the streets. Walk in the slums. I have. It will make you understand rather too clearly."  
  
Samuel was trying as hard as he could to gather up his pieces of Dimitri and put them back together so they'd be usable. "I want you to tell me," he said in Dimitri's solemn, stern voice, putting the emphasis on the word 'tell', reprovingly.  
  
Combeferre snorted softly. "One can't tell this sort of thing. You must go out and see the people you would be fighting for. You must understand why you are doing what you are doing, and no one can tell you that. You must talk to a working-class man, to a prostitute, to a homeless child. If you then still don't understand, it would be better to go home."  
  
Samuel stared. "I... I see. All right. I'll go." He stood.  
  
"Should you now?"  
  
"What?"  
  
"Are you all right?"  
  
"I'm fine!" Samuel froze, and reprimanded himself unkindly for sounding so childish.  
  
"You are not." Combeferre bowed his head. "Stay here. You're not ready to go out yet."  
  
"You just told me I should," said Samuel irritably.  
  
"No. I just told you what you should do. You should do it to-morrow. Stay here. Be Samuel for me. I've barely met him, and I already know Dimitri very well."  
  
Samuel paused a moment, then relented, and lay down on the bed, with his head at Combeferre's knee, completely disarmed. He suddenly felt very young and small.  
  
"How old are you, Samuel?"  
  
"Eighteen."  
  
The way Combeferre said his name was beautiful, Samuel thought. No one had ever said it that way. No one had said it in rather a while. He trembled, and found he was telling Combeferre everything. 


	6. The Shadow Discovers Other Shadows

"The Shadow Discovers Other Shadows"  
  
Samuel stayed with Combeferre that night; they slept side-by-side, and Combeferre put an arm around Samuel, making him feel grateful and warm.  
  
He awoke in the morning before Combeferre, pulled off the old nightshirt that had been lent him, and re-dressed in some of Combeferre's clothes, which were all too big for him. He rolled up the sleeves and the cuffs of the breeches, and sat on the bedside watching Combeferre sleep.  
  
He couldn't help but think how different people with spectacles looked when they weren't wearing them. He smiled, and picked up the pair of spectacles from Combeferre's bedside table, and peered through them. He blinked, quite surprised at how everything had suddenly gotten very blurry and sharp at the same time. He put them down guiltily, and shook Combeferre awake.  
  
"Oh! I beg your pardon. I didn't realise I'd overslept." Combeferre yawned and reached for his spectacles. Samuel put them in his hand.  
  
"You haven't. It's only very early yet. I'm not going to classes to-day. I'm doing as you said. I'm going out, and I shall speak to people."  
  
"Will you?"  
  
"Yes." Samuel smiled a little at Combeferre.  
  
"Good. Then shall I see you this afternoon?"  
  
"Yes, of course," said Samuel.  
  
Combeferre smiled back: a gentle, warm smile that made Samuel feel almost dizzy. "All right." Samuel dropped to the floor, and began putting on his stockings and shoes, while Combeferre watched, slightly amused. "My clothes are too big for you."  
  
"I don't mind. I like them," said Samuel without even thinking, for he did. They smelled like Combeferre, and were much softer than his own clothes, because they'd been worn oftener. He got up, and dipped his head for a farewell. "I'll see you this afternoon. Au revoir."  
  
"Au'voir."  
  
Samuel slipped out, closing the door behind him.  
  
Combeferre dressed slowly, thinking of him. He really had believed Samuel was Dimitri, all that time. But, he thought, he perhaps preferred Samuel. Dimitri had known what he was doing, and had been very charming, in an elegant sort of way. He had been quite self-possessed, and more grown up. Samuel was rather childish. But then Samuel had all the charm of sad-eyed child who tried to act older than he was. Although he clearly stumbled about more than Dimitri would have, he was softer and sweeter than his elder brother.  
  
Combeferre tied back his hair and left for his classes.  
  
Later that day, Samuel returned. But rather than going to the cafe or to Combeferre's, he went back to his room, locked himself in, and set savagely to writing.  
  
Combeferre found himself a little worried when he came back from the college, and he made the short journey to Samuel's boarding-house rather apprehensively. The difficulty with children was that things made hard impressions on them. He rapped on Samuel's door.  
  
"Enjolras?"  
  
"Combeferre? Oh. I'm sorry." Samuel unlocked the door, and opened it. "Come in."  
  
Combeferre realised that Samuel was rather pale, and his eyes had the slightly widened look of having seen something frightening or shocking. "Are you all right?"  
  
"I've done as you said. I understand now," Samuel said, and his eyes looked older than they had before.  
  
"Ah."  
  
"I'm sorry."  
  
"For what?" Combeferre asked, surprised.  
  
"For a lot of things." Samuel turned. "I've written some speeches, and I should be obliged if you looked over them."  
  
"Certainly," said Combeferre, and he stepped over to Samuel's little writing-desk.  
  
They spoke no more of the matter then, or ever again, but it was evident to Combeferre, if to no one else, that there was a sharper reason now behind what Samuel did. The child had lost some of his childishness, and Combeferre felt a little sad. He wasn't sure, now, that it should have happened yet. 


	7. The Shadow is Beset By the Light

"The Shadow is Beset by the Light"  
  
Samuel stopped by at Combeferre's to return the clothes a few days later. He stood in front of the door, waiting for Combeferre to open it, and making - though he didn't know it - a rather adorable picture. He held Combeferre's clothes folded over his arms, and his hands clasped in front, and he was standing with his back slightly curved in. He was also rubbing the back of his leg with his other foot. It made him look rather younger than he was.  
  
Combeferre came to the door in a moment, and pulled it wide.  
  
"Enjolras! Please come in."  
  
Samuel ducked in, and stood in the centre of the small room, suddenly feeling acutely nervous. He and Combeferre had only met in public for the last four days. Of course that meant they hadn't spoken about It, which he hadn't managed to find a name for. He'd called It Samuel for a long time, but after Combeferre knew, he'd found himself continually slipping back into Samuel when he was alone, so much so that it seemed like there were two of him. Dimitri when people were around, and pathetic Samuel when he was by himself. So really, he hadn't the first idea what to call It anymore. And really, he didn't know what would happen if Combeferre decided he wanted them to talk about It.  
  
He startled when Combeferre laid a hand on his shoulder.  
  
"Enjolras? Are you all right?"  
  
Samuel smiled quickly, making a short nervous laugh with his throat. "Yes, of course I am. I brought back the clothes I borrowed." He held them out.  
  
Combeferre took them, and set them on the single chair. Samuel could tell by the way he did it that he only wanted to get rid of them so that he could address something else.  
  
"Enjolras-- May I call you Samuel?" Combeferre tipped his head to one side.  
  
"No," said Samuel quietly. "Please don't. I'm Dimitri."  
  
"No, you're not."  
  
"What?"  
  
"You're not." Combeferre put his hands on Samuel's shoulders. "You can't keep pretending."  
  
Samuel stared at him, blinking. He'd been about to say he wasn't pretending. But what was he doing? He *knew* he wasn't Dimitri. He was just taking on Dimitri's name so that everything Dimitri had wanted to do would be done. He had begun doing it without even thinking about it, but he did know what he was doing now. He knew he wasn't Dimitri, so being Dimitri was *not* pretending. "I--" He continued to stare at Combeferre, without the first idea of what to say in his defence. That was proof he was being Samuel right now, he thought. Dimitri would know how to argue, so beautifully that Combeferre would know he was completely wrong, and wonder why he'd even suggested something so absurd in the first place.  
  
He realised suddenly that Samuel didn't iwant/i Combeferre to be proved wrong. Samuel wanted for them both to win arguments.  
  
Combeferre made him stop thinking by pulling him close and hugging him. Samuel buried his face in the soft material of Combeferre's shirt, and didn't know what he'd do next. Combeferre was holding him tightly, and he realised he didn't really like it. It was too hot, and Combeferre's cufflinks were marking into his skin.  
  
"Don't," he whispered, and disentangled himself. Even after he did, however, he felt too hot.  
  
"Sam--Enjolras? Are you all right?"  
  
"I'm fine. Just please don't do that."  
  
"What should I do?"  
  
"I don't know."  
  
"We're not getting anywhere. I tell you, you can't keep pretending to be Dimitri."  
  
"Why not? I want to do what Dimitri would have done. No one would ever follow me, but anyone'll follow Dimitri!"  
  
"You've never given anyone a chance to know you enough to know if he'd follow you."  
  
Samuel looked at him sullenly. "I let you. Would you follow me?"  
  
"No--"  
  
"There!"  
  
"--I wouldn't *follow* you. But I couldn't care for Dimitri. The perfect leader wouldn't let anything get in the way of his purpose. He would have known that. But Samuel, *you* are human. You're not perfect. Why should you be?"  
  
"Because I should be. Because Dimitri was."  
  
"How do you know that?"  
  
"I-- what? No--"  
  
"Samuel."  
  
"What? I need to go home."  
  
"All right," said Combeferre softly. "But think about it? I won't ask more of you. Just think about what I've said, please."  
  
Samuel sighed. Of course, that was a reasonable suggestion. Combeferre was terribly reasonable. But he did feel a little tired, and unhappy, so he nodded docilely. "I will."  
  
Combeferre smiled for him - because when Combeferre smiled, it was always just for the person he was smiling at - and Samuel felt rather dizzy. "Good. I'll see you, then, Enjolras."  
  
"You as well, Combeferre." Samuel couldn't help but give a hopeful little smile of his own before he slipped out the door. 


	8. The Shadow Greets More Lights

"The Shadow Greets More Lights"  
  
On Monday, Samuel met Joly and Bossuet. Courfeyrac dragged Joly along, poking him and laughing the funny little good-humoured laugh that Courfeyrac always laughed. Bossuet followed with rather long steps. They came upon Samuel and Combeferre standing together, talking about something that had happened in class. Courfeyrac bounded over energetically, and grabbed Combeferre's sleeve.  
  
"Mon ami, mon ami! My esteemed companions, Jerome Joly (whose parents must have enjoyed that exotic touch of alliteration) and Georges L'aigle, who we call Bossuet (you can see why)." He announced this proudly, as though he'd discovered the greatest treasure in the world in these two men. "These two splendid fellows wish to join us. Joly is in medicine," he added.  
  
Joly gave Samuel a sweet grin, and ducked his head. He was a slightly plump, rather adorable-looking person with curly blond hair and glasses. They looked quite different from Combeferre's.  
  
Bossuet, in turn, took Samuel's hand and shook it. He was tall and his arms and legs seemed too long, and Samuel was pleasantly surprised to find that he was the sort of person who didn't shake one's hand too weakly or too firmly, but instead in a just-right sort of way.  
  
"Salut, Enjolras! Courfeyrac has told me your name."  
  
"Quite so. Yes." Samuel smiled at him, already inclined to like him.  
  
Courfeyrac only stood by, silent for once, beaming proudly over Joly and Bossuet.  
  
Combeferre stepped forward. "Salut. I'm Combeferre." He smiled as well.  
  
"Salut, salut, salut everyone!" Courfeyrac sprang back into action. "There are six of us now! Enjolras, Combeferre, Courfeyrac, Feuilly, Joly, Bossuet. In the order of our joining. That's progress, man!" he cried delightedly.  
  
Joly prodded Courfeyrac with the knob of his cane. "You rascal." He turned to Samuel. "Courfeyrac has, you understand, outlined what we are, what we want, and what we're doing, but as he is Courfeyrac, I don't trust him an inch. If you'd be so good as to explain?"  
  
Samuel drew himself up a little, unconsciously. "We are called Les Amis d'ABC."  
  
"Abaisse?" asked Bossuet.  
  
Samuel nodded. "Rather."  
  
"It's a pun, isn't it?" said Joly happily.  
  
"Yes. Yes, it is. At any rate, we're revolutionaries. Don't think otherwise. We *shall* have a revolution. We want liberty. Our motto is that of the Revolution. Liberty, Equality, Fraternity. You understand?"  
  
"Quite. That's what Courfeyrac said, in essence, though he coloured it up a bit." Joly gave Courfeyrac another poke with his cane. "You speak plainly."  
  
Courfeyrac giggled, and batted at Joly. Bossuet rolled his eyes good-naturedly.  
  
"Yes, aren't you pleased to have us?" he asked Samuel. "I give you my word of honour I shall keep us serious and sober during the revolution."  
  
"As well as during meetings!" Courfeyrac called over.  
  
"Certainly."  
  
Samuel gave them a solemn-eyed look. "I'm glad to have you all. But I really must be going."  
  
"Of course, of course," Courfeyrac said. "Meeting next?"  
  
"To-morrow evening."  
  
"Very well. Pleased to have met you," Joly smiled.  
  
"And you."  
  
"Au'voir, Enjolras!" Courfeyrac glowed for a moment, and then sprang away, catching sight of someone else he knew trailing away. Joly followed him, laughing. Bossuet stayed just long enough to give Samuel another friendly nod, and then he too was gone. Samuel blinked.  
  
"They just vanish. When you say you don't want them, they go like dandelion seeds."  
  
Combeferre smiled. "They do, don't they?"  
  
"Combeferre--" Samuel caught his arm-- "I don't know what's happening. I keep falling back on Samuel when I'm alone. Now I'm frightened all the time that I'll do it in public, that I'll break down and lose everything. What's going on?"  
  
"Hush. You're all right. You do beautifully. You do," Combeferre told him reassuringly. "You convinced me. You know that I want you to be Samuel; you know I think you should do this. But while you're doing it, you do it excellently." He looked rueful. "Don't worry about anything."  
  
Samuel closed his eyes. "I should die without you."  
  
"Oh... I doubt that." 


	9. The Wind Observes the Shadow

"The Wind Observes the Shadow"  
  
Samuel sat tiredly in a chair at the cafe, watching Feuilly, who in turn was watching him with those disconcerting black eyes. Feuilly's hair was more tousled than usual, and it made him look as though he'd been the victim of a strong wind. Except, Samuel couldn't help thinking, one had the suspicion that Feuilly was more likely to have conjured the wind up on purpose than been its victim. He was smiling the almost sarcastic smile that he always smiled, but his eyes, studying Samuel, were quite solemn. Samuel had an intense desire to look away.  
  
"Bonjour, Enjolras."  
  
Samuel's eyes widened, and he blinked several times, realising Feuilly had spoken. When one watches someone else's eyes, one never expects that someone to talk. It's almost like observing a statue or painting.  
  
"--Bonjour."  
  
"I see the little group is growing. Combeferre, Courfeyrac, Joly, Bossuet, myself, and now this Prouvaire boy, and Grantaire?" Feuilly's smile widened, in a way that seemed nearly indulgent. Samuel felt his throat tighten, and didn't know if it was because he was annoyed with Feuilly, or because he was extremely discomposed by him.  
  
"Grantaire is *not* a member of this group. He doesn't even care about it."  
  
"Oh, I'd forgotten. That's true, isn't it," Feuilly murmured. "The drunken cynic who forced his way in. I do think it extraordinary that he doesn't care about your group--"  
  
"Our group," Samuel corrected automatically.  
  
"--and yet he stays." Feuilly tilted his dark head and looked at Samuel. "Don't you?"  
  
"I don't wish to talk about him," Samuel said.  
  
"And it wasn't what I wanted to speak of to you, either. I know a man--have recently met him, really. He's called Bahorel."  
  
"Oh?"  
  
Feuilly shrugged his thin shoulders. "Yes. If you're interested."  
  
"Of course," Samuel said with dignity. "New members are always welcome."  
  
"Oh, good." Feuilly raised his eyebrows. "I'll bring him tomorrow. I also think you should speak with Joly and Courfeyrac. They're acting absolute fools, and never pay attention to you."  
  
Samuel froze. He'd been thinking the same thing himself. Feuilly was gazing intently at him, and his black eyes looked utterly somber. It made Samuel think of dead leaves falling through sleet. He was thrown off his guard, and forgot for a moment that Feuilly had said anything.  
  
"Well?"  
  
"No!" Samuel sat straight instantly. "No, they're just--" he paused for a long moment. "They don't understand yet, do they? They're silly. They think this is a game right now. They think it sounds like a novel idea. They haven't--been out in the slums. They haven't seen *things*."  
  
"What?" Feuilly looked taken aback, for the first time.  
  
"Nothing," said Samuel, feeling highly embarrassed. Feuilly was staring at him in a slightly calculating manner, as though he was taking something new into account.  
  
"Quite. Well." Feuilly stood and stretched a little, by arching his back and shoulders. There was a rather awkward pause.  
  
Samuel felt obligated to break it by standing as well. "I'm going to find Combeferre."  
  
"Do that."  
  
Samuel edged off, casting looks over his shoulder. He was feeling the overwhelming discomfort that accompanies being watched by someone one can't see. He looked anxiously at Feuilly, and their eyes met for a split-second.  
  
He was aware of being suddenly afraid and confused. He spent the rest of the afternoon with Combeferre, and never noticed that he was picking up a nervous habit of touching Combeferre's sleeve to comfort himself. 


	10. The Shadow Lengthens for Dusk

"The Shadow Lengthens for Dusk"  
  
Samuel had come perfectly innocently to the cafe. He had sat himself down at some table, and begun reading. And now, as Courfeyrac suddenly bounded towards his table, he wondered what he'd done wrong to deserve it. Perfectly innocently, he reminded himself. Without the least suspicion of being subjected to a Joy of Courfeyrac's. He had taken to calling it a Joy when Courfeyrac found out something which delighted him so much that he'd pounce whoever was nearest.  
  
Courfeyrac flopped down in the chair beside Samuel's, his handsome, friendly face glowing triumphantly.  
  
"You'll never *guess*. Guess!"  
  
Incidentally, Courfeyrac was the only Ami who wasn't at all awed by Dimitri. No matter how much of Dimitri's stunning, beautiful solemnity Samuel put forward, Courfeyrac engaged him as though he were anyone else.  
  
"Can't you guess? Ha!" Courfeyrac leaned towards Samuel, in a conspiratorial manner. "I've found out why Feuilly keeps harping on about liberty, equality, for every man *and* woman. He's got a little family. God, they're all dirt poor, but it's dear." He looked utterly proud of himself. "There's his wife; she looks so thin one thinks she may blow away in the wind. And a son, terribly young. Do you know, I've half a mind to do something for the son. Do you think Feuilly would let me be his adopted uncle Michel? I adore children, so long as they're not mine."  
  
Samuel stared dubiously.  
  
Courfeyrac gave him a knowing smile. "Ah, now if you had any children, you wouldn't let me be their adopted uncle Michel, would you? You'd keep them far away from Courfeyrac and his interfering. Well, *I* like the idea, and I shall go ask Joly what he thinks." With that, he sprang to his feet, and fairly skipped off.  
  
Samuel began rubbing his temples. Clearly, Courfeyrac was mad, or bordering it.  
  
But Feuilly had a wife? A family? He frowned. A young son? The Samuel part of him was sorry he hadn't known. It wanted him to ask Feuilly, and meet them. Of course, the Samuel part of him was a child. He frowned again. Dimitri didn't mind knowing, but Dimitri couldn't afford to distract himself. He needed to be interested in the people who were *there* and the men who would fight, not the women and children who would stand in the shadows and watch.  
  
Samuel wanted friends, whose families would love him and welcome him and smile hello if he met them on the street. Dimitri wanted warriors, and their families were unimportant if they couldn't also be.  
  
He groaned softly, and shook his head. Oh--  
  
With a startle, he realised Combeferre had come up and was sitting beside him.  
  
"Bonjour, Enjolras."  
  
"Salut, Combeferre. Combeferre?"  
  
"Yes?"  
  
"What's your first name?"  
  
"Edmond." Combeferre smiled. "After my father, and my grandfather. That makes me Edmond Combeferre III, doesn't it?"  
  
Samuel nodded and closed his eyes. Combeferre's smiles always made him lightheaded. Suddenly he looked up. "Combeferre, I have some things to read, and--and something else I've got to study for school. May I read at your place? I--" He paused, searching for a justification for his request.  
  
"Of course," Combeferre cheerfully interrupted his train of thought. "I'd be happy to have you."  
  
"Merci," Samuel said softly.  
  
Combeferre was the only safe thing in the world, he thought. There was something reassuring about everything he did and every word he said. If Samuel needed someone to tell things to ever, Combeferre was the person. He thought, perhaps childishly, that Combeferre knew the answer to everything.  
  
It would, perhaps, have disillusioned him horribly to learn that Combeferre couldn't solve all the problems in the world with his sweet, friendly smile and his gentle voice. 


	11. The Light is Loved by the Shadow

"The Light is Loved by the Shadow"  
  
Samuel had brought his book along, clutching it close as he followed after Combeferre. Again, he'd thought with annoyance, again he was *following* *after* Combeferre. And yet, it was worth it, he decided quietly, sitting on Combeferre's bed with his book open.  
  
He always sat on beds with his knees sticking out to the sides and his small feet pressed together. It was comfortable, and it made him feel small and slightly innocent and-- Besides, there was something about Combeferre's throw rug bedspread that demanded sitting like that.  
  
He smiled across the bed at Combeferre, tilting his head. Combeferre was flipping through a large blue textbook, and his grey eyes darted back and forth quickly as he read the lines. He read more quickly than anyone Samuel'd ever known, and, watching his eyes continue to flicker over each line, Samuel was quite entranced. He began to study Combeferre. His hair was tied back with a yellow ribbon, which really didn't suit him, and his spectacles had slipped down the bridge of his nose. He sometimes pressed his knuckles against his lips, and when he frowned at something in the book, it was always accompanied with a little noise (of incredulity or disagreement) made in his throat.  
  
Samuel closed his book, sat up on his knees, and moved forward, trying to peer at what Combeferre was reading. It didn't take a moment for him to overbalance and fall forward, knocking into Combeferre' shoulder.  
  
"I'm sorry!"  
  
Combeferre laughed. "It's quite all right. Here." He helped Samuel up.  
  
"What are you reading?"  
  
"Botany, God help me, and the author can't punctuate. It's rather annoying." He smiled. "It's my own fault, however, for being so rigid in such matters. If I can't stand it when this mark is used instead of that, I must learn to be more patient."  
  
"Isn't it more the fault of the author, for publishing a book when he can't correctly punctuate?" Samuel asked.  
  
"If it was a book on composition, I should say yes. But it's botany, which has very little to do with how such a thing is spelt or written. Should we lose all this knowledge of flowers and plants because a wise man who knew them and could draw them couldn't put his comma in the correct place? The knowledge really outweighs the small annoyance I feel for the imperfection."  
  
"That's true."  
  
Samuel rubbed one arm self-consciously, feeling almost as though he'd been chastised. Combeferre had resumed his reading, but he was smiling now, and he'd pushed his spectacles back in place with his finger.  
  
Suddenly, Samuel lay back on the bed, looking at the ceiling. "Ah, God."  
  
Combeferre looked over quickly. "What?"  
  
"I'm sorry, I'm tired. Do you mind if I sleep for a while?"  
  
"Of course not. I'll get off the bed." Combeferre had been sitting with his legs crossed, and he easily unfolded himself and stood. Carefully, Samuel turned back the rug and snuggled under. Combeferre glanced at him fondly, sitting down again in the only chair. "I'll wake you in an hour or so, shall I?"  
  
"Yes, thank you."  
  
He didn't quite sleep. Instead, he watched Combeferre through half-closed eyes, with his head pillowed on his arm, feeling the soft warmth of his breath on his hand when he exhaled. At last he closed his eyes fully and really did try to sleep.  
  
Combeferre propped his head with the back of his hand, looking at Samuel. He stayed still for a long moment. Then he stood and stepped over to the bed, and bent, kissing Samuel's forehead.  
  
"Sleep well," he whispered.  
  
Finally asleep, Samuel smiled. 


	12. The Shadow Spreads

"The Shadow Spreads"  
  
When Samuel awoke, it was dark outside. Combeferre had neglected to wake him up, and, indeed, wasn't even in the room. He was quite alone. He sat up, and got out of bed, brushing out his shirt, which had become wrinkled and rather dusty.  
  
For some reason, Combeferre's room didn't seem as safe when he wasn't in it. No lamps or candles had been lit, and it was all the sort of dusty darkness of not-quite-twilight. Samuel shivered, and pulled the rug off the bed, wrapping it about his shoulders. All of a sudden, he felt awake and older--he felt terribly old. He could feel that he wasn't Dimitri at all. It was Samuel who was old.  
  
"Combeferre," he said sharply. He wasn't frightened, but he was tense; he knew Combeferre wasn't there, and he said his name anyway.  
  
Looking about, he realised someone was sitting in Combeferre's chair. It wasn't Combeferre. It was someone tall and very slender, who sat with his legs crossed. It wasn't easy to tell what he looked like apart from that, because of the darkness.  
  
"Who are you?" Samuel asked. To his surprise, he discovered he still wasn't frightened. He was annoyed.  
  
"Samuel, you're being mad." The other person stood, and reached out a hand. "Little brother, mad." And Dimitri ruffled his brother's golden hair. "What do you think you're doing?"  
  
Samuel frowned. "I'm doing what you wanted to do."  
  
"I can see that. It was what *I* wanted to do, petite. It wasn't for you to do. And I wouldn't have let you anywhere near it if I had done it."  
  
"But I wanted--!"  
  
"I know. But I would not risk your life. You're mad to think you can do it now. You haven't grown up." Dimitri took Samuel's chin in one hand. His fingers pressed hard enough to be uncomfortable. "Do you understand? Even now, you're like a little child. It's in your face, in your eyes. You've not grown up at all. Children don't go to battle, Samuel."  
  
"I'm eighteen, as old as you are."  
  
"No, you're not. You never were, and you shan't be ever." Dimitri shook his head. "Now, stop this nonsense. Go home to mother and father. It's only a short distance."  
  
"What about Courfeyrac?" Samuel thought of Courfeyrac's glowing face. "What about Feuilly?" He thought of Feuilly's black eyes. "What about Combeferre, Dimitri?" He said the last with the most worry.  
  
"You're to tell the truth. Tell them who you are, and go home."  
  
"I don't want to."  
  
"Child!" said Dimitri scathingly. "You're too much of a coward to believe in the truth, and too full of pride to accept that it isn't cowardly to live." With that, he released Samuel sharply and turned away.  
  
"Come back!" shouted Samuel, furious. "Damn it, I--"  
  
But Dimitri was gone, and he was in the dark room alone. The feeling of old hit him again, very hard, and filled him until he thought he'd seen everything in the world for a thousand years. He felt as though he'd been part of every single person and animal and piece of land there'd ever been, and because people are hurt and animals killed and land destroyed, he felt as though he'd been wounded more times than anyone could count. At the same time, because people are joyful and animals give birth and land is beautiful, he felt as though he'd been part of all the life and happiness that had ever occurred. There was so much feeling that he felt as though he'd break and split and die from all of it.  
  
He woke to Combeferre shaking him gently. "Samuel. Samuel."  
  
"Combeferre?"  
  
"Yes? Good lord, you must have been tired. You slept three hours and never showed any sign of waking."  
  
Samuel sat up, and got out of bed. "Thank you for getting me up." He picked up his book and put his coat on.  
  
"Are you going? You needn't. Whyever are you?"  
  
"I need to grow up. I'll come back. Soon," he promised, and kissed Combeferre's cheek. "Au'voir."  
  
Combeferre stared as the door closed. 


	13. The Shadow Discovers the Wind

"The Shadow Discovers the Wind"  
  
For a very long time, Samuel just walked. He wasn't sure yet how all this walking was going to help him become less a child, but when he thought about it, seeing everything he could might well do a lot. There were a thousand things to see, too; awful things and things that made him smile.  
  
He didn't talk to anyone any more than just saying 'excuse me' when he slipped through a crowd. He felt absolutely free, knowing no one and not belonging to anyone here. He was all his own and everything he did was all his own decision. And of course, he had a small change-purse in another pocket inside his coat pocket, and therefore the means to stay out all evening.  
  
The place he was walking wasn't the slums--he had no intention of going there--but it wasn't a good part of the city, either. That made the people, in his opinion, fifty times more interesting.  
  
He looked all about, and his gaze passed over a small crowded market and rested on a young woman buying bread. She wore a very thin, worn sort of dress that was still quite clean. It was also brown, which he thought unflattering. She had a small child at her heels, and a basket on her arm, and he liked her appearance without even realising it. If she wasn't so dreadfully thin, she would have made a good model for a painting of ideal peasant life. He could just imagine someone using her to pretend being poor was romantic.  
  
He looked elsewhere, and studied a man this time. He was bent and ugly, and his hair was brown and wiry. He was very old, and yet he seemed good-natured. Samuel watched as a younger man came up to him, and rather expected the old man to make a quip and cuff him affectionately. To the shock of both the younger man and Samuel, however, the old man swore and struck the former.  
  
"Get the hell out of here, you little bastard!" he cried.  
  
Samuel winced and turned away. To his extreme surprise, he found he had just crashed into Feuilly.  
  
"Enjolras! What the devil?"  
  
Samuel smiled weakly. "Bonsoir, Feuilly. I've just been walking here. I beg your pardon."  
  
"Don't bother. You're apt to get lost here, though. It's confusing if you don't know it, and I rather think you don't."  
  
"No, I don't," Samuel admitted.  
  
Feuilly's black eyes glittered. He was observing Samuel quietly, and appeared to be considering him. This was to Samuel's discomfort, as it made Feuilly seem even more detached and solemn.  
  
At last Feuilly nodded. "You're welcome to have dinner with my family."  
  
Samuel was delighted.  
  
He had spent the entire day being surprised by one thing or another, and his final surprise was when the young woman who had been buying bread joined them.  
  
"This is my wife," Feuilly said, looking away. "Manon, this is Enjolras, whom I have told you about. I've done you a disservice by inviting him to dinner without warning. I hope that doesn't create too much trouble."  
  
"No. Bread is down two sous, and potatoes down one. I've bought extra anyway." She was carrying her son now, as well as the basket. To Samuel's relief, he was quiet. Manon turned to Samuel, and smiled. "Isn't he a handsome man, Justin?" she told her son. "Smile for him."  
  
The child didn't smile. However, he did stare straight at Samuel with Feuilly's black eyes.  
  
~~~  
  
Dinner was full of meaningless conversation, but Samuel enjoyed it terribly. It was a sort of beautiful meaningless conversation, and it belonged under Feuilly's little roof and around his little table. Too, it wasn't meaningless in a superficial way--it was just all made up of things that didn't matter so much. Feuilly and Manon talked softly about the price of different things, and Manon invited Samuel into the conversation by asking him about the college he went to. He tried to describe the professors to her, which made her laugh. They never once mentioned revolution. They never once mentioned unrest or oppression. It was a conversation that was essentially theirs, but so unspecific to the world around them that anyone anywhere might have had it, and Samuel loved every moment of it. For the first time in two years, he felt as though he didn't even have to be Dimitri. It was the sort of conversation that invited anyone, and Samuel fit into it just as well as Dimitri would.  
  
Before he left, he told Feuilly and Manon that he had never had so enjoyable an evening, and they, of course, thought it was only a pleasantry. 


	14. The Shadow Learns

"The Shadow Learns"  
  
Samuel found, to his surprise, that he was avoiding Combeferre. There was no reasonable reason for it--it was just that, while he was trying to grow up and stop acting so much of a child, he didn't want Combeferre to *see* him trying. He wanted Combeferre to see him again when he was perfect, and to observe Combeferre's stunned congratulations.  
  
So, when he wasn't at school or holding a meeting as Dimitri in Musain or the Corinthe, he haunted Feuilly's house. Feuilly was oddly tolerant of this, apart from a few sideways looks, and Manon chattered amiably while she went about her Routine. He grew to understand, over the course of two weeks, that Feuilly and Manon had a Routine, and that they always did the same things on the same days throughout the week. They hardly ever changed it.  
  
The child, Justin, didn't speak. He only watched with his black Druid eyes. It bothered Samuel considerably, but as Feuilly and Manon were putting up with him so well, he didn't even think about saying anything. He just gave Justin exasperated glances when he went past him.  
  
It made him truly happy to be there, however. He felt useful, and Feuilly's family made him unafraid of himself. He *enjoyed* being himself.  
  
Manon had him fetch things occasionally, and Feuilly once sent him to the bakery for bread for supper. Samuel had discovered that they were equals. They shared everything and they were everything. Sometimes Feuilly was a wife as well as a husband, making supper himself and setting the table; sometimes Manon was a father as well as a mother and taught her son how to hold a brush for painting silk fans. But the difference was in that in their family, nothing was really something that 'the husband' would do or 'the mother' would do. They were so equal that sometimes it made Samuel's head hurt.  
  
But it taught him what equality really was.  
  
They never really left their Routines in all the time he was there, and it struck him that they must lead a rather boring life. He wondered how one could survive in a life so predictable. They always knew what would happen next. Then he realised they didn't always know what would happen. He realised that their odd, imperfect life made them *happy*. They loved one another and their son and they respected one another. He knew, of course, that they weren't always happy. He had seen Manon's thin face look thinner in worry, and Feuilly's black eyes go blank in disappointment. But they understood that to live one cannot dwell on the bad things. They knew how to live and not just stay alive, but to love living.  
  
It taught him what freedom really was.  
  
And he knew he was growing up, at last. 


	15. The Shadow Leaves the Wind

The Shadow Leaves the Light  
  
For some reason, Samuel nearly felt taller when he left Feuilly at last. It had been almost a month altogether since he'd begun staying with them, but no one had complained or commented or said anything at all. He'd just come and stayed. Because of this, he was slightly worried about what he would say when he left. It seemed improper to treat it as a regular visit.  
  
After supper the last night, he finally managed what he wanted to say.  
  
"Thank you."  
  
Feuilly clearly understood perfectly. The beginnings of a smirk touched his lips. "Of course."  
  
Samuel looked at Feuilly. They were both washing dishes. Feuilly had one of Manon's aprons tied about his waist, and his shirtsleeves rolled up but still rather wet. Somehow, even with all that and a plate in one hand and a few soapsuds in his hair, he seemed dignified and not quite human. His black eyes were fixed on Samuel.  
  
"Will you go to-night or to-morrow morning?"  
  
"To-night."  
  
"Then you ought to say good-bye to Manon. She's very fond of you."  
  
"I shall."  
  
For a few moments, neither of them spoke, and then Feuilly went back to washing the plate. "You should now."  
  
"Yes. Thank you, Feuilly."  
  
This time, Feuilly didn't answer. Samuel went into the next room.  
  
Manon was down on her knees by a rough wooden stool, which Justin was painting awkwardly. He held the paintbrush in his fist, and stroked blue down the stool's leg. When Samuel came in, both of them looked up.  
  
"Samuel." Manon smiled.  
  
"I'm leaving in a few moments. I wished to say goodbye." Samuel knelt beside them. "And thank you very much for allowing me to stay." Manon had never made him uncomfortable the way Feuilly had, and he didn't mind saying good-bye rather less impersonally.  
  
"You're leaving? You're going awfully suddenly." Manon tilted her head sadly. "But we've been quite happy to have you, haven't we, Justin?"  
  
Justin glowered, and waved his paintbrush at Samuel.  
  
"I've been happy to be here. Thank you, Manon." He kissed her cheeks.  
  
"You're welcome," she said, smiling again. "Good-bye, Samuel."  
  
After that, he got together the very few things he'd brought, and left, nearly feeling tall. As he was going, he heard Manon calling to Feuilly, "Silvain, we must buy bread--"  
  
The whole walk back to his apartment, he thought of the name Silvain. He'd heard Manon call Feuilly that before, of course. But it was such a perfect name for Feuilly. It wasn't quite real and it fitted with the black Druid eyes and the solemnity that was so different from Dimitri's kind of solemnity. It made a lot of sense for him when he didn't make much sense at all.  
  
When Samuel arrived, he set down the few things on his desk. He realised that the desk was covered with soft grey dust because he'd not touched anything on it in so long. That seemed to make him realise everything else. At once he sat down and began to clean the dust from his papers and his books.  
  
He had grown. He was not a child any longer. He would take responsibilities, not because they were Dimitri's, but because they were his own, and it was time for him to take them. This revolution—-it might be in Dimitri's name, but it would be his revolution. He would succeed for Dimitri; but Samuel, but he, must be the one to succeed.  
  
And he must find Combeferre.  
  
Suddenly, he heard a clock striking somewhere in the city. It was ten o'clock, and he sat on the bed with a little sigh. All that to-morrow.  
  
Now he would sleep. 


	16. The Shadow Begins to Lighten

The Shadow Begins to Lighten"  
  
The next day, Samuel went to school feeling vaguely apprehensive. At last he was going to meet Combeferre.  
  
He had been thinking of it as 'at last meeting' for a long time now, hardly realising it until it became natural. The last time he had met Combeferre he had been a child, an entirely different person--now he was going to meet Combeferre all over again. But despite the apprehension, he really couldn't wait at all. He remembered the very moment he'd left Combeferre's room, and couldn't believe it had only been a little over a month. It seemed like years and years of living away from home.  
  
He /did/ pay attention in his classes, but only just barely; remembering to take down notes but not to take them down in a particularly legible handwriting.  
  
And after school he found a place by the doors and waited anxiously, until finally he saw Combeferre, surrounded by Courfeyrac--acting just as insane as usual--and Joly, and lanky Bossuet trying to keep them from smothering him.  
  
"Combeferre!"  
  
"Enjolras!" Courfeyrac cried. "You're at last seeking us out! And I must say, it's about time! What do you mean, avoiding us for so long? Honestly, you come, you give us a lecture, and then you go like smoke on the wind! See what you've made me do? I'm using obnoxious similes! Do come along and have a drink with us, now that you're back!"  
  
"No," Samuel said firmly, but not without a little laugh. "I want to talk to Combeferre."  
  
Bossuet gave him a sideways look of surprise, and he tilted his head. But Bossuet didn't attempt to address him, merely saying, "Well, Courfeyrac, if he wants our philosopher from us, we mustn't stop him."  
  
"Oh, but I will stop him!"  
  
Meantime, Combeferre had edged over to Samuel. "You wanted to talk to me?" he smiled, but now Samuel didn't feel any lightheadedness; only a little pleasant feeling. Of course he still loved Combeferre's smile. He was only reacting to it differently, because he was no longer a child.  
  
"Yes, but privately. Perhaps we might eat supper together?"  
  
"Certainly. I should just like to stop by home and leave my things."  
  
"Of course! I shall too."  
  
"Ah, Enjolras! You're forsaking us /again/! First for Feuilly, and now for Combeferre? You're a hardhearted man."  
  
Samuel turned, wondering how on earth Courfeyrac knew he'd been staying with Feuilly. It wasn't as though Feuilly would ever mention it. He wasn't that sort. He might have given Courfeyrac a lightening-quick, sarcastic smile if he'd heard him wondering where Samuel was, but anything more would have been uncharacteristic. And Courfeyrac didn't seem the sort of person to realise the truth from a look.  
  
"Simply busy," Samuel murmured, and for once Courfeyrac did nothing more than scrunch up his nose sulkily.  
  
Joly sighed. "Courfeyrac, do come along. We agreed anyway that you needed to be looked over."  
  
"Oh, /that/. Yes, you're right." Courfeyrac perked up again. "Let's off! I haven't since I was a tiny wee babe had a doctor poking me and prodding me and looking in my ears. Let's do that!"  
  
"Courfeyrac," Bossuet informed them amiably, "may be the victim of what he is fondly calling The Great Disease of the Revengeful Ear. He says Bahorel has ranted at the top of his voice so many times that his ear is revolting and aching painfully. I believe Joly is rather jealous. At any rate, he's going to try to cure it. He's enlisted my help for some reason."  
  
Smiling greatly, Combeferre said, "Well, we shan't keep you. Do make sure Courfeyrac comes out of it all right."  
  
"Joly will know what he's doing." Bossuet bowed and trotted after Joly and Courfeyrac.  
  
Combeferre bit his lip. "Do you think Courfeyrac will be all right?"  
  
Even after all this time and growing up, Samuel did not really like Courfeyrac, and he could not say that he would be particularly upset if the man lost an ear. "Likely." He caught from Combeferre the same look of reproach he'd received the day he first met Courfeyrac.  
  
"But," said Combeferre, as though he hadn't given it, "you were saying supper?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"All right. Shall we meet at Café Chanson in, perhaps, half an hour?"  
  
"That's fine."  
  
And they parted.  
  
Samuel could hardly believe it had gone so well. He hadn't been embarrassed or frightened: he had just spoken to Combeferre and invited him to supper the way any ordinary man might do. He was so pleased that he was at Chanson in a quarter of an hour, and then had to wait and be glanced at impatiently by the waitress until Combeferre arrived.  
  
They had only ordered and the waitress gone off when Combeferre looked at him curiously, and said, "You've changed. I thought at first you were still Dimitri, and then you laughed to Courfeyrac. You never did that before. Were you really staying with Feuilly?"  
  
"Yes. He was very kind. And, Combeferre, I am not a child any longer."  
  
Combeferre smiled. "I can tell. What shall I call you? I don't wish to call you Dimitri, but you've told me any number of times not to use Samuel."  
  
"Use Samuel now. I don't mind being Samuel. I'm a different Samuel from before."  
  
"All right, Samuel."  
  
There were a thousand things Samuel might have told Combeferre, but he didn't. He wasn't sure why. It was only that it seemed sufficient to say he was no longer a child, and that it would have been improper to say anything about his stay with Feuilly. It was like a dream he wouldn't tell anyone.  
  
So instead Samuel asked Combeferre about himself.  
  
And they talked and talked, conversations that Samuel really enjoyed and thought quite as wonderful as the ones on his first evening with Feuilly and Manon, if in a different way. There were simply so many things to talk about that they couldn't stop. They talked the whole way back to Samuel's now un-dusty apartment, and stayed and talked by the lamp until long past midnight. Samuel was realising, now that he had Combeferre back, how much he'd missed him.  
  
They ran out of things to say around three, and laughed crazily at nothing because they were both exhausted. By the time they went to sleep finally in the uncomfortably small bed Samuel owned, they were too tired to notice their elbows poking each other.  
  
When at last he woke, Samuel lay on his side and looked at Combeferre, smiling blearily in the light dotting the bed and floor. He was completely disoriented from staying up so late and then getting up equally late, but too happy to mind much.  
  
He propped himself up on his arms and daringly kissed Combeferre's hair, which had come unbound while they slept. Combeferre startled him pleasantly by taking his hand and squeezing it gently.  
  
Samuel was sure he would write with Dimitri's handwriting for the rest of his life. He would answer to two names. He would still talk like Dimitri and carry out Dimitri's dreams. That was his duty. But Combeferre would know he was really Samuel.  
  
Somehow, nothing in his life had ever pleased him more. 


	17. The Shadow Encounters the Smaller Light

"The Shadow Encounters the Smaller Light"  
  
Several weeks later, on the night before Christmas Eve, Samuel found himself staying late at Musain. He told Combeferre just to go home, as he foresaw being there a long time over some work, and didn't want to keep him up. Combeferre complied, and Samuel looked after him for a moment fondly, feeling disgracefully like Manon looking after Feuilly. This thought jolted him out of it abruptly.  
  
He was glad Combeferre had not asked about the work as, strictly speaking, there was none. What he really wanted was to talk to Courfeyrac. He wondered absently as he moved over to Courfeyrac's table if Combeferre had already known this.  
  
Courfeyrac was rather drunk, he noted instantly.  
  
"Hallo, Dimitri."  
  
"Bonsoir, Courfeyrac. How is your ear?"  
  
Courfeyrac giggled. "It took you that long to ask? Lord, you /are/ busy, Dimitri. My ear is fine, but Bahorel is still an idiot."  
  
"Do you--"  
  
"A complete idiot. I wonder why he talks so loud. He's always talking, always loud. I wish you would talk more. You're the only one who could drown him out."  
  
"Courfeyrac, do you--"  
  
"Would you like any of this wine? I feel impolite, drinking alone. It's nasty, but I've been unfortunate enough to have had worse."  
  
"No, thank you." The trouble with Courfeyrac, Samuel thought sourly, was the he was mostly the same drunk as he was sober.  
  
"Oh, well. I expect you'd like better stuff. That's proper. Our leader should not be reduced to our states. That's not at all proper. You shall have only the best. We all think so. Even Feuilly thinks so, I expect, and he's /Feuilly/, you know."  
  
Samuel blinked. "Feuilly?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
Suddenly he thought of something. "How did you know I had been staying with Feuilly?"  
  
"Silly of you, Dimitri. I'm part of the family. I told you--remember when I told you? I said I should love to be Feuilly's son's godfather. I asked. Now he's mine to corrupt. Oh, you may never let me near any of your children, but Feuilly had no such qualms. He thinks better of me than you do. You don't like me at all." Courfeyrac's finger trembled accusingly at Samuel. "Feuilly trusts me. You don't."  
  
"No, I don't."  
  
"You don't like me because I love life," Courfeyrac went on, ignoring him. "There's something wrong with you. There has been since I first met you. And you don't like me because I'm happy all the time. Why shouldn't I be happy, eh, Dimitri? Why shouldn't I?"  
  
"I never said you shouldn't."  
  
"Just because I want to be happy before I die. I want to be happy, and no one minds but you. Joly wants to be happy too. We're worried and we want to be happy. Joly's frightened. He believes in you and he doesn't want to die and he knows he could. He wants to be happy always so that he'll be happy if he does die." Unsuccessfully, Courfeyrac tried to straighten. "And me too. A lot of people get killed doing things like this. Not all of them. But some of them do. If we're the ones-- we don't think about it. And you don't like us because of that. Do you think we should be brave about it?"  
  
"/No/," said Samuel roughly. Little as he would have minded Courfeyrac's losing his ear, or perhaps his tongue, Samuel did not want him dead.  
  
"Yes, you do."  
  
"Courfeyrac..."  
  
"Shall I be silent? Are you tired of hearing me go on? I'm not sorry. Feuilly trusts me with /his/ child."  
  
"I don't have any children to trust you with. Now, Courfeyrac--"  
  
"Pah! I won't have it. I'll go on loving life."  
  
"Courfeyrac, may I help you home?"  
  
To his utter astonishment, Courfeyrac stood unsteadily. "Oh, very well. But I won't stop loving life and I won't stop talking and that's that. You're so annoying. You don't trust Joly and myself and poor Bossuet to love your precious revolution just because we love it a different way. I won't stop talking."  
  
He was as good as his word, and by the time Samuel was making his way back to his own apartment, he would have been glad never to be spoken to by Courfeyrac again. However, he had listened.  
  
He wondered if Dimitri would have listened. He wondered if the old Samuel would have listened. But there was no profit in wondering. He had listened, because only by listening would he understand his Amis.  
  
And he might not be able to stand some of them, but he must understand them all. 


	18. The Shadow Follows the Wind

The Shadow Follows the Wind  
  
The summertime was when things changed for Samuel. Small things were changing long before summer--since Christmas, in fact--but it was in June when the world seemed to turn on its head.  
  
Since Christmas, he'd gone on doing Dimitri's work. Since Twelfth Night, he and Edmond had spent their evenings at one or the other's apartment. He still didn't get on with Courfeyrac, but he did try to understand him. He tried to be kinder to Joly, gentler with Prouvaire, and better humoured with Bossuet, who was wry and clever and a good companion. With Pontmercy he tried to be patient, and with Bahorel reasonable.  
  
He still treated Feuilly as a close companion, asking after Manon and Justin.  
  
He still ignored Grantaire.  
  
But it was in the summer when all his attempts seemed to come to nothing. He led as a good leader should, and taught his Amis the words of revolution, of freedom. But his successes seemed to be worthless. They didn't solve anything in the end, and bought nothing either. His words weren't worth life.  
  
On twenty-fifth of May, Feuilly came in very late to Musain. His black eyes were quick and unsettled, darting here and there instead of finding one point and focusing on it. When at last his eyes did calm, he fixed them on the back of a chair and only half-heard Samuel's plans for the future.  
  
After the meeting had broken up, Samuel sought him out.  
  
"Feuilly. Feuilly, here, man. Is everything all right?"  
  
"Should it not be, Enjolras?"  
  
"You were late. I wondered."  
  
The black eyes stared at Samuel, intent and sombre and disconcerting as always. He thought he must have been overreacting. "I had some trouble at home," said Feuilly softly.  
  
"I see."  
  
Feuilly was under no obligation to explain, and he didn't, but Samuel felt a tremor of worry that stayed with him all evening and made concentration hard. Edmond was forever looking up and asking gently, "Samuel? Are you all right?"  
  
"Yes," he kept answering, and returned to his work.  
  
Three days later, both Feuilly and Courfeyrac were missing. They never appeared at Musain, and afterwards, Samuel apologised to Edmond and went straight home. He couldn't sleep, and the feeling of worry became stronger and perhaps a little frightening. Something was terribly wrong.  
  
On May thirty-first, when Feuilly and Courfeyrac were again absent, Samuel resolved to visit Manon. Perhaps she could explain it. He had plenty of excuses for the intrusion: they were his companions; they were his fellow students; they were members of his planned revolution. If he wanted to, he could even stop by and pretend he had come for a social call, but he knew he wouldn't pretend that.  
  
He rapped on Feuilly's door and it was answered by Courfeyrac. Samuel started. Courfeyrac's hair was dishevelled and his clothes wrinkled, as though he'd been sleeping in them, and his usually-cheerful eyes were bloodshot.  
  
"Ah. We wondered when you'd come. Silvain thought you would."  
  
"What on earth's wrong?"  
  
"Oh, God, Enjolras." Courfeyrac rubbed his hand over his eyes and forehead. "Manon and my dear little godchild have some kind of fever, that's all. You know Justin never speaks or smiles--he doesn't cry, either. Such a good child! He just lies in bed and stares at me."  
  
"I--well, let me in, for God's sake."  
  
"Yes, yes, of course. How stupid of me. Manon cries, though! She's already so thin it's absurd, but now you can see through her skin. Oh, Dimitri. Yes. Do come in."  
  
Samuel slipped through the door, shutting it quickly behind him as Courfeyrac half-stumbled into the bedroom.  
  
"I'm tired, you know," he said dazedly, standing in the doorway, "We haven't had much time to sleep. She always wants water. Hullo, Silvain, he came. You were right." 


	19. The Shadow and the Little Light Dance 'R...

The Shadow and the Little Light Dance 'Round the Wind  
  
Feuilly was sitting by the bedside on a little three-legged stool, tipping a tin cup so his wife could drink. Samuel had never seen him caught up in any great emotion before, but now he seemed to be alive. He was moving constantly--quivering--and his black eyes were bright and he kept murmuring, "Come, now. You can drink it. It's only water. We have plenty of water. You aren't wasting it. We don't need to save it. There's more than enough water."  
  
"He won't let me go for the doctor--at least, he hasn't yet. Stupid man. He's horrid like that, but they have no money to pay for a doctor." Courfeyrac managed to make his way to the other side of the bed where Justin lay, looking solemn and staying quiet.  
  
"Won't you pay for the doctor?"  
  
"Oh, yes, I will, but Silvain doesn't want me to," he said, kneeling and pressing Justin's small hand a little. "He doesn't believe he could possibly reimburse me... He'll give in soon, though. He thinks we can work through this on our own, but look at Manon. Look at Justin. It's impossible. He'll give in soon."  
  
Just then, Manon began to cry because she couldn't drink properly, and Feuilly started stroking her hair with hands that shook, though only a very little. He looked up.  
  
"You're right, Michel. Call the doctor."  
  
His voice was rougher than Samuel had ever heard it before, and his black eyes had turned feverish. Courfeyrac stumbled to his feet.  
  
"A moment, Courfeyrac, let me. I could help."  
  
"I won't hear of it."  
  
"I'll go."  
  
"Oh, I think I can make it--"  
  
"Don't be /stupid/! They're dying! It's no good to have you falling down in a gutter somewhere and no one coming and us not knowing where you are and waiting and waiting! I'll go, for God's sake! Sit down!"  
  
Courfeyrac obeyed, shakily, and Samuel ran out the door. He hadn't run in a very long time...  
  
When he returned with the doctor, Manon was no longer crying and Feuilly was trying to help her drink again. Courfeyrac was sleeping in the corner of the room with his eyes red and his clothes even more of a mess.  
  
The doctor ordered them all out.  
  
Samuel sat with Feuilly in the other room, staring at a tabletop covered with Justin's attempts at painting. Feuilly had painted part of it too, he thought, and there was another style of brushstroke that must have been Manon's. Courfeyrac was still sleeping, although now in a different corner by the stove.  
  
Over the course of the next three days, Samuel became a shadow again. He was often hungry, because no one found time to cook; Courfeyrac simply slipped out once in a while and brought back rolls. In the mornings, he had to run to the college for his classes, and immediately after said good-bye to his Amis and Edmond and went back to Feuilly's little home.  
  
In the afternoons, he stood quietly in the back of the room watching Feuilly take care of Manon and Courfeyrac take care of Justin, following the orders of the doctor and administering medicine which Courfeyrac purchased.  
  
In the evenings, he offered to help, but Feuilly, who must be /dying/ from lack of sleep, shook his head, and Courfeyrac, who kept collapsing, glared and pushed him away.  
  
On June third, Courfeyrac ordered him away. Feuilly no longer paid attention.  
  
"This's enough, Dimitri," Courfeyrac said, lowering his voice needlessly. "We're all right."  
  
"The hell you are," Samuel whispered furiously.  
  
"I tell you, Feuilly can care for his wife and I for my godson. The doctor's promised to come by to-morrow morning. We shall be quite all right, and I wish you'd go away. We've never liked each other, and you make me irritated."  
  
"I don't care; you need help. I stayed with them for months. Don't you think they're my family as well?"  
  
"But they're not, because you've got Combeferre and your revolution. God! You think for a moment I'm fooled by you? You've got your lover! Why aren't you satisfied with that? Justin loves me the way he's never even looked at you! You may be wealthier than any of us, more beautiful, better at words, but damn it, you have your happiness somewhere else! Why don't you go and enjoy it? Why must you always be coming here and staying with my good friends?"  
  
"Courfeyrac, you're insane. You're completely insane! This isn't a question of which of us the child loves better! They're going to /die/! You need my help!"  
  
"As if! We were managing before you came--I would have thrown you out, but Silvain wanted you--" They were both shouting now, sweating, and Courfeyrac looked mad with his hair and clothing rumpled and his eyes red and sore and wide and circled underneath.  
  
And suddenly they were silent.  
  
"For the love of God, Dimitri, just go," Feuilly whispered, touching Manon's cheek.  
  
Samuel had never seen Feuilly look small and frightened before. He nodded, not quite able to speak, and left the little house.  
  
Edmond held him close all night long, but he couldn't stop sobbing. 


	20. The Shadow Goes to War

The Shadow Goes to War  
  
The following morning was one of quiet, tense bodies and calm, soft voices. They had to do /something/, after all, to pretend nothing was wrong.  
  
It was a Saturday.  
  
It was the day before Lamarque's funeral.  
  
At one-fifteen, there was a knock at the door, and Edmond answered with his usual special smile for whoever was there.  
  
"Hullo, Combeferre," said Courfeyrac tiredly.  
  
"Hello. Do come in. How are things?"  
  
Courfeyrac sighed. "I'm afraid they're not well. You can tell, can't you? I usually have something clever to say even for the worst situations, as you know. Well. No. Things are terrible."  
  
Samuel sat at the table, trying not to notice that his hands were shaking. "Well? Just tell us, for Pity's sake."  
  
"Well. They've died. Manon and Justin. So I am, once again, just plain Michel Courfeyrac, and no one's Uncle Michel, and Feuilly is no longer a father or a husband. It's like going back years, but worse."  
  
"Dear Lord," Edmond said softly.  
  
"I just thought you ought to know. There won't really be a funeral. He can't afford one. There's just enough money to have them buried. --And yes, I did offer, but damn it, it's his family and he refused."  
  
"We understand," said Edmond. "Thank you for telling us."  
  
Courfeyrac left.  
  
"It's my fault, isn't it?" said Samuel at last. "I couldn't make him listen. I couldn't get him to be sensible and let me help and let me--"  
  
"It isn't anyone's fault. There wasn't anything to be done, and they tried. They tried as hard as they could. It wasn't anyone's fault."  
  
Samuel didn't believe him.  
  
The next day, he was woken early by another set of knocks on the door.  
  
Feuilly looked as though he'd finally gotten a good night's sleep after the week spent taking care of his family. He wore a new set of clothes, with a handsome starched cravat in black and a well-pressed black silk waistcoat. His shirt, topcoat, and trousers were also black. His hair had been combed neatly and his face shaved, and his black eyes were just as solemn as they ever were. But something had changed.  
  
"Well, Enjolras."  
  
"I'm sorry for your loss. It was my loss, too. It was everyone's loss. She was--"  
  
"Thank you."  
  
"Yes."  
  
"It's Lamarque's funeral to-day, isn't it?"  
  
"In four hours."  
  
"Everyone has gone tense. Paris is holding her breath."  
  
"They expect something will happen."  
  
"Perhaps they are right to do so. I think, Enjolras, that it is time we had your revolution."  
  
Samuel took in once more the black suit, the neat face, the black Druid eyes that watched. They had changed. Behind the solemnity and the quiet, dignified calm, they had changed.  
  
"Yes," he said. "It is time."  
  
FIN 


End file.
